Lemons
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU. Life gives everyone lemons. Rated for language.
**AN: This is just a little oneshot based off a Tumblr prompt request.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Daryl had checked the car from trunk to transmission – the automotive equivalent of from asshole to appetite – and there just wasn't any spin he could put on things that would turn this into good news. Jenkins towed it in the night before, late, and it had been the first thing on Daryl's list to do for the day. He was supposed to get this bad boy up and running—or at least devise a plan of attack to do just that—and the only thing he could think to do was call Jenkins back and tell him he'd made a mistake. This piece of shit was better off towed down to the scrap yard. At the very least, there, the poor soul who owned it could recover some pocket change.

This car? It would do nothing but bleed someone dry.

Daryl walked to the office and flipped through the pages on the clipboard that detailed out jobs that needed to be done. He found the slip from where Jenkins had dropped the car off, instead of attached to the clipboard as it should be, stuck over to the side. Daryl was the only one in the shop at the moment, so there was nobody he could bitch at for their lack of organization, so he simply sat down in the office chair and picked up the phone.

He was a little surprised when the number he'd been given—the best place to reach the car's poor owner—rang him in to the diner in town. The person who answered had to repeat themselves twice, and was very irritated by their second "hello", before Daryl was even able to form a sentence.

"Lookin' for a McAlister," Daryl said. "This is Dixon. Daryl. At Mac's shop? Got this number for a car that was towed in last night."

He was put on hold—which mostly meant the phone had been put down somewhere so that he could still hear the clatter of the diner—and a few moments later he heard a woman speaking to him.

"You C. McAlister?" He asked. She confirmed that she was. He was little surprised. Usually it was some guy that he got to talk to about these things. "This is Daryl Dixon. Mac's Body Shop? Trent Jenkins towed your car in here last night?" She confirmed that she was aware of all of this. "Yeah..." Daryl said, leaning back in the chair and reaching for a pen to play with and occupy his fingers. "Thing is—the car's shot. Shot. All to hell. Done." No matter what he said, she acted like she couldn't understand him. Either she couldn't understand him or she couldn't hear him over the din of activity that was happening around her. He growled to himself. "Can't you call me back on no quieter phone?" He asked. She hung up. That, apparently, was her answer. "Fuckin' hell," Daryl muttered to himself, hanging the phone up. He got up, left the office, and went back out into the shop. He looked at the car. Spending even another half hour on it would be a waste of time. It would be a waste of resources. He'd get paid for the one job and he'd miss out on picking up any of the other shit that he could get done and ready to pass to someone else before the day drew to a close. And he wasn't wasting any more of his hours on a car that was due for the junkyard years ago.

Daryl dove into tearing down another car that they'd promised to have out in a week. He lost himself, for at least an hour, in disassembling the body and marking the pieces so that he could put it together again without pulling his hair out over the complicated puzzle. As he worked, he lined up the spent butts of his cigarettes on the cement floor near him and hummed along with whatever song the rock station playing offered him. He wasn't expecting anyone to come in that day—and they didn't have anything rostered to go out.

So when he heard the rattling of the metal door—someone banging on it instead of coming in the side door like a human being—it nearly stopped his heart because it drove him so abruptly out of his concentration. Daryl got to his feet, dusted off his palms on his pants, and went to the wooden door—like any civilized person would do—to let himself outside.

A car was parked outside, someone sitting in it and not paying him any attention, and a thin woman was harassing the door to the stall.

"Lady!" Daryl barked. She stopped her harassment and turned to look at him. She shrugged her shoulders for no apparent reason—other than she might have done a number on them beating on the metal door—and she readjusted her purse strap before she came walking toward him with all the quickness of a Bantam hen looking for a fight.

"Are you Daryl?" She asked.

Daryl was almost amused at the overall tone of voice she had and her stance. Like most little hens, she looked slightly terrified but was covering it over with bravado that she hoped would hide it completely.

"In the flesh," Daryl commented.

"I'm Carol," she said. "McAlister. You have my car?"

Daryl's stomach sunk.

"Oh," he said.

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Can I come in?" She asked.

Daryl chewed his lip.

"Never stopped you," he said. "But—most the time we just use the door if we ain't movin' a car in."

He gestured around toward the door and the woman followed him. He kept casting glances at her, over his shoulder, to make sure she was still on his heels. She stepped into the shop and he closed the wooden door behind her. He assumed that her friend—or whoever it was that was waiting on her in the car—was content to just stay there.

"You want something to drink?" Daryl asked.

"I just want my car," Carol said.

Daryl waved his hands at the vehicle. There was nothing different about it now than there had been when he'd found it that morning—except maybe he'd left behind a few handprints here or there where he'd somewhat wiped away the impressive collection of dirt she seemed to be holding onto.

"It ain't gone nowhere," Daryl commented. "Prob'ly ain't never goin' nowhere again. I tried to tell you on the phone. That car ain't hardly worth its metal."

Her mouth fell open slightly. She was looking at the car like she'd never seen it before. She looked back at him and shook her head.

"That can't be right," she said.

Daryl shrugged.

"I get nothing outta lying to you," he said. "I'd make more if I was to fix it enough to get it running and let you go right on to the next place it broke down."

"Get it running," Carol said. "That's—that's why it's here."

"You ain't hearing me," Daryl said. "If it runs? It's only gonna run right on down the road where it's gonna break down again. What you already paid in towing, and what you'd pay for me to fix it, is more than the car's even worth sold as scrap. This car is done."

She shook her head at him. All at once, his stomach twisted. She was on the verge of tears and he hated tears. It was one thing that made him hate, more than almost anything else, dealing with women when it came to this sort of thing. There was no warning as to when they might start crying and there was no switch to turn it off once it began.

"This is my car," Carol said.

"And it's a piece of junk," Daryl said. "Sorry," he added quickly, seeing that he hadn't helped distance her from the tears that were threatening to come out around the edges of her eyelids. "Listen. You'd do better to scrap this car and—I can call you someone sells some decent ones..."

"I can't afford a car," the woman said. She shook her head. Daryl almost felt like he was delivering the news of the death of a loved one. "I could afford _this_ car. I just bought it a month ago and..."

"Who'd you buy it from?" Daryl asked quickly. "Maybe you could get'cha money back?" She shook her head. "Listen, lady, whatever you paid for this car? It was too damn much." Daryl laughed to himself. "Whoever sold you this? Weren't no kinda honest person. This car ain't nothin' more'n scrap."

Her jaw quivered. He was impressed with her, so far, though because she hadn't actually burst into the tears that he was expecting.

"It was all I could _afford_!" She said, her words bursting out loudly enough to ring around the concrete structure. Daryl's eyes naturally squinted at the harsh sound. "I had to have a car! I've got to have a car! I can't buy something better without a job and I can't keep the job if I can't— _get there_! Sophia's daycare is—I'm living on _charity_!"

She fell apart. Daryl watched it as all the pieces crumbled and dropped as surely as if little chunks of her were just melting to the floor. He stood there, his mouth somewhat opened, and listened as she dissolved into her meltdown. The tears rolled out of her eyes, but she never gave way to full sobs. The cry, in Daryl's opinion was much more pathetic than any of the more theatrical and dramatic shows that he'd seen while women sought sympathy.

 _These were real._

She couldn't go back to _him_ , whoever _he_ was. And he'd told her that this kind of thing would happen. He'd told her that she'd never figure a single damn thing out for herself—she wouldn't make it without him. She wouldn't make it _with him_. And Sophia? She didn't know how tight things were and Carol didn't want her to. She shouldn't have to worry about that. She shouldn't have to worry about Carol. She should worry about being a kid, but apparently she'd never gotten the chance to worry about that. And the job? The job was going to turn everything around. It was going to keep her from living—as she said—out of everyone's pocket. It was going to let her prove that she didn't _need him_.

Except she did need him. Because she'd bought the car with every last bit of savings she had—not much to speak of—and she'd borrowed the gas money for the gas that was in the car. And she'd borrowed the grocery money. And she'd borrowed the money for Sophia's after-school daycare so she could work more hours.

And now it was all falling apart. Because there wasn't a car. And without a car there wasn't a job. And without a job? There wasn't anything else.

 _And she couldn't go back to him. Except he was right. And she was going to have to go back to him._

Daryl just stood there awkwardly and listened because, if there was no "off" switch for theatrics, there was certainly no "off" switch for this. He couldn't even suggest to Carol that he needed her to stop because he feared she'd hurt herself. The only thing he could do was brace himself, hope for some kind of deliverance, and wait out the storm.

But as suddenly as the breakdown had begun, it stopped. She looked at him, wide-eyed and horrified, and he watched her start to pick the pieces back up. He watched her gathering them up, like picking up all the shards of herself off the floor, to start putting them back together. She came back together in front of him until the only evidence that she'd come apart was the fact that her eyes were red and she was mopping at her face with her hands while she blew out apologies in little puffs of air.

And once she was all back together—as whole as if she'd never been anything different—she shook her head at him.

"If there's nothing you can do..." she said, she sighed. "There's nothing you can do. Is there—another body shop?"

Daryl swallowed. He wasn't sure he trusted himself to move, less likely to speak. He nodded his head.

"Tops, down the road," he said. "About six miles. But—they ain't real good. They'll half-ass it for you and charge you. Don't guarantee their work, neither, so as soon as you're back out the driveway—it's your problem if it falls apart."

Carol examined the car again, looking down the full length of it, and then she shrugged.

"I'll take my chances," she said. "I have to. Can you—call someone to get it down there?"

Daryl stared at her and looked back at the car. The amount of work it needed, it wasn't worth. Replacing everything that needed to be replaced with new parts would be essentially building a new car on a body that was barely good for scrap metal. Half-assing it would buy some time, but it wouldn't buy much. Even then, the second-hand parts would cost more than the car was worth. It wouldn't get her far, either. Just far enough to keep, slowly, draining her of resources that she obviously didn't have.

Daryl didn't know much about _him_ , but he could guess enough to know that he wouldn't care for him.

And this car? It was a _death-car_. The only place it would drive her was right back to him.

Daryl sighed and shook his head.

"Lemme just—check a couple things?" He asked. "Just—take another look. You can—you can call up here tomorrow?" Carol opened her mouth to him and started to shake her head. He held a hand up to her. "Ain't gonna cost you extra," he said. "Just—lemme take a look. Make some calls."

She hesitated, but she finally agreed. She told him that she wouldn't call. She had some things that she had to do the following day—some appointments or something that she told him about even though he had no reason to need to know them—and she'd show up about lunch time and get the car. Daryl figured, at least, that gave him a window of time—even if it meant that he was pretty sure he wasn't sleeping all night.

He pushed out the door, finally, and watched as she walked—much less confident than she had when she'd rushed him at the door—toward the car where a blonde woman, now outside of the vehicle, was standing and leaning against it with her arms crossed across her chest. He saw them speak a few minutes, didn't listen to their exchange, and let himself back inside the shop when he could see that they were making the moves to leave.

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"You puttin' money into the damn thing you don't have," Mac said, chewing on a toothpick and crowding Daryl.

"I got it," Daryl said. "Or I wouldn'ta been able to spend it."

"Cashin' in credit. Favors. That's what you done," Mac said.

"What the hell I do with my own damn credit is my business," Daryl responded. "Back the hell off me any damn way—don't swing that way, no way."

Mac chuckled, but he did take the hint. He put a great deal of distance between them as he went over to examine the work that Daryl had abandoned the day before. The car wasn't apart yet and it wasn't ready to get started on any more than it had been. Daryl glanced at him, already knowing what the man was thinking.

"I'll get that broke down," Daryl said. "'Fore I leave tonight."

"I'm sure you will," Mac commented, half to himself. "After your sweet thing leaves." Daryl hummed at him and Mac chuckled. "Think I don't know why the hell you doin' this? Why anybody would?" Daryl sucked his teeth at him, but for the most part he'd learned to ignore Mac. The man laughed again. "You might not," he continued. "But I do..."

Daryl checked the clock. The woman should be here by now. He didn't even know her, but he was hoping that nothing had happened that she wasn't expecting. He hoped that the breakdown he witnessed was the only one she'd had. He didn't have any real reason to give a shit—but that had never really stopped him before.

He raised the stall door and got in the car. He coaxed it to life, muttering pleas to the vehicle that wanted to die but wasn't allowed to, and he cheered to himself when the engine finally turned over enough to get things started. He held his breath, put it in reverse, and eased the vehicle out of the shop and onto the concrete slab. Outside, he killed the engine and cranked it again. It cranked easier this time. It sounded a little less like it was cursing him for his hardheadedness.

He got out of the car, but he didn't get the door closed before he heard the sound of someone driving up. He turned to see the same car as had pulled up the day before. It parked in exactly the same spot and Carol got out of it. This time the blonde did too, but she didn't do anything except remain by the vehicle like some kind of quiet bodyguard.

"I got held up," Carol called. "I'm sorry."

"Just pulled her out," Daryl responded.

Carol finally reached him. Her demeanor was trapped between the two he'd seen the day before.

"Are you going to get it to Tops?" Carol asked.

Daryl sucked his teeth and shook his head.

"Turns out," he said, "that—she weren't as dead as I thought. I got her running."

Carol's shoulders slumped and a smile came across her face. She looked nice when she smiled. Much nicer than she had when she'd fallen apart inside the shop. Daryl almost smiled simply from looking at hers.

"How much do I owe you?" Carol asked.

Daryl shook his head and her mouth opened. He held a hand up to stop the protests he could practically feel coming.

"The parts we used we just had layin' around. You ain't gettin' out of it free," he said. "Jenkins is still gonna send you a bill for the haul in." He leaned into the car and plucked the papers out of the passenger seat that he'd tossed in there earlier. He offered them to her. "This car is probably gonna buy you about a week. After that? There ain't shit that's worth doin' to it. Go here. Ask for Walt White—see? His name's up there. Now—he knows you're comin'. If anybody gives you any lip? Tell 'em Mac sent'cha."

Carol opened her mouth to him again and Daryl repeated the gesture of holding his hand up to silence her.

"He deals in scrap and second-hand parts," Daryl said. "Deals in junkers, clunkers, and other unfortunate shit. He'll give you fair trade on this. Dollar for dollar. Then? Ya call this here number," he pointed to the paper again, "and you ask for D. Wallace. Like D-E-E. Like the letter. You tell him just what'cha told White. Tell 'em Mac sent'cha. Tell 'em to call up here they got any problem. He'll set you up. The car will be used, but it'll get you a few years at least. That—oughta be time for you to get on your feet. Save up for something better."

Mac walked out the shop. He stopped a moment, turned on the hose, and filled his mouth with water that he promptly spit on the ground to wash the tobacco juice out. Carol watched him. Then he walked over, wiped his hands on his pants, and offered her one to shake as he offered his name—or at least the name that everybody used to get his attention.

She took it and looked at Daryl, her mouth still open.

"I don't understand," Carol finally muttered.

Mac laughed quietly.

"Don't none of us hardly ever do," he commented. Carol stared at him.

Carol looked at Daryl again. Her face asked all the questions that her mouth couldn't quite manage to form. He felt his stomach do an odd sort of dance around inside his guts. He nodded his head at her.

"I can't thank you," Carol said. He shook his head at her.

"You can't 'cause I wouldn't let you," he said.

"I'll pay you back..." Carol stammered. Daryl shook his head again.

"Won't allow it," Daryl said.

"Except—we do accept trade in baked goods and beer," Mac offered. Daryl glared at him and the old man chuckled before he excused himself by turning away and heading back toward the shop.

Daryl shook his head again.

"We're clear," Daryl said. "Consider it a favor."

"Why, though?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged and passed Carol the keys that he'd been toying with since he got out of the car.

"We all get lemons, sometimes," he said.


End file.
